In today’s technological world, do kids still play with dolls? I don’t know this fact; my sons haven’t given me grandchildren in order to know it, but that’s a topic for another day. You see, I’ve been digging through boxes in my garage, escaping into my past as if I’ve travelled by time machine. Yesterday I came upon a box of my favorite dolls. Wow did those memories bombard me!​First off was my Chatty Cathy doll. Anybody remember that one? She walked and talked, a bit like me at that time, ha ha. She’s in pretty good shape, believe it or not, except for her hair. Unfortunately for Chatty, I imagined myself a bit of a hair stylist in those days, and lopped all that long, blonde hair off, sort of like the reverse bob I wear nowadays. Apparently, my sister told on me before I could give the poor doll a Marine cut. In this case, tattle-telling was a good thing.

Next, is Raggedy Anne. Oh, I loved my Raggedy Anne doll! Her dress is faded, and it looks like my stylist years weren’t over, because there’s a purple yarn bow in her hair that I’m pretty sure isn’t original. Aw, well. I have to hang on to her; I loved carrying her around. She was soft and cuddly.

Now, we come to the Madame Alexander doll era. Those dolls were the crème de la crème when I was growing up. They were beautiful, skillfully crafted with the best quality materials. They looked real; better than real, actually.

I believe my first Alexander doll was a Swedish one. I didn’t take her picture because she’s pretty beat up. I played with her; I didn’t sit her on a shelf and look at her. She rode my statue horses, taught school, went for rides in my flowered bicycle basket. While her hair is intact, it looks a fright, and her hat slides off her head drunkenly.​I received more Madame Alexander dolls after her, and they look better, although most of their hair is not in the original style. I’m really surprised I became a writer. You’d think I’d be a famous stylist with such early tendencies toward greatness.

The Native American doll came from Wyoming, when my aunt and uncle vacationed there. My sister got the female doll, while I got the boy. It was great playing with them; we had statue horses to play with as well, so we had western imaginings galore.

​While my sister and I played with these dolls, nothing compared to our Barbies. And Barbie’s friends. I liked Francie and Skipper best. They were younger. I loved their hipper clothes. And, I’m proud to say, their hair remained intact.

When I see the tiny snaps, stockings, and shoes we labored to put on our dolls, I realize how good the accessories were for fine motor skills, although they were probably choking hazards as well. Luckily, I was the youngest, and not likely to pop the tiny pieces in my mouth. Besides, my sister had honed her tattling skills.​I even owned the Barbie camper, the jewel in the crown of my toys. It blended my love of dolls and cars in one toy. It was well-loved and well-played-with. I would camp like Barbie: glamping, I think it’s called. My house on wheels. I played with that toy endlessly.

Lastly, just like the toys of today, the dolls got smaller. I was entranced with my Dawn doll. I think she was supposed to be a singer in a girl band. I loved her hair and tiny clothes. She is my best-preserved doll, probably because I was older, and had moved on to wanting to be a writer. I even have her carrying case.​Playing with dolls was an activity my sister and I could engage in for hours. We used our imaginations to create stories and adventures for our toys to embark on. I often feel sad for the kids of today, with everything on a screen. Technology is great, don’t get me wrong. But, without the use of toys, our imaginations get stunted. I’d never trade my time with my sister and our dolls for any video game. It’s too precious.

I grew up with a stay-at-home mom. Growing up, she hadn’t had much of a home life. Her mom died when she was four, and her dad wasn’t up to the task of raising five children. He sent her and one brother to a children’s home at least twice while they were small, and she never forgot that experience. She vowed she would have a close-knit family. So, when my parents had my sister, and then me, she was more than happy to stay home and take care of us, and the house.

We had an early-sixties, traditional nuclear family. My mom cooked our meals, cleaned our house, and generally maintained the household, while my dad worked all day outside the home and did all the yard work on the weekends. For as long as I can remember, my mom had an iron at the ready and a pot of something good cooking on the stove. She took her chosen life style seriously, and I don’t think she ever regretted it.​She hung our laundry on the backyard clothesline, and then ironed them throughout the week. She once said she loved the smell of line-dried bedsheets and towels. I remember my sister and I running around and through the clothes, until Mom hollered at us to stop. I also had a toy iron and ironing board that I would set up right alongside my mom’s, and I would press my doll’s clothes while she did our family’s.

My mom could fold sheets to less than an inch thickness; even the fitted ones. While mine has always resembled a sale table at Walmart, her linen cabinet looked regimentally straight enough to satisfy the pickiest drill sergeant. After they were dried, she even reached into every pillowcase and pulled out the lint from the corners of them. Our school dresses (girls didn’t wear pants to school until later), with all their tucks and pleats and bows, were ironed and starched until they could have stood on their own.

When my sister Jane or I got holes in our play clothes, mom would iron patches underneath, so they would last longer, yet not be too obviously mended. Ditto with our socks. If we got holes in them, I remember mom sitting down on the couch, the offending sock stretched over a jar of cold cream, and my mom darning the hole together with needle and thread. I found that the most fascinating activity. I still do, even though nowadays it’s so much easier just to throw out the sock and buy more.

My mom taught us to dust, and vacuum, wash and dry dishes by hand, and polish silver. Did you know that there is a specific order to dish washing by hand? There is. Glasses first, when the soap suds are fresh (so the glassware will sparkle), then utensils, followed by dishes, with pots and pans bringing up the rear, because they dirty the water the most. And you dry everything; never, ever, air dry your dishes, because they get spotted, and spots show that you’re a lazy homemaker! Mom cringed when she came over to my house in later years and saw my pots stacked in the dish drainer.

We watched her cook all our favorite meals and bake the best Christmas cookies. Our dressers always had stiffly starched doilies on them, as did our black and white TV set in the living room. And when we learned to vacuum, we had to crawl on our hands and knees with the “crevice tool” accessory that came with the machine, vacuuming the carpet next to the baseboards, so that we didn’t leave scrape marks on the painted wood, another sign of lazy housekeeping.

Being a homemaker nowadays is a challenge. Women work outside the home just as much, if not more, than men, running multimillion dollar businesses and arguing high profile legal cases. Oftentimes other people take care of the children, laundry, and meals. And my hat goes off to the women who have broken through traditional gender roles and set the standard high for future women. If I have granddaughters, I want them to know that only their imagination limits what they can do.

Yet, when I sit down each November and polish my silver for the upcoming holiday meals, I can’t help but take a special pride in how shiny it gets. And when I cut fresh flowers from my garden and place them in the center of the kitchen table, even if we’re having hot dogs for dinner, a sense of rightness steals over me.

I can almost feel my mom’s hand, patting me on the shoulder while saying, her voice a whisper on the breeze from the open kitchen window, “You make me proud, Cathy. It’s all in the details. You’ve raised two good boys and turned your house into a home.”

Do you have a special routine or chore that helps turn your house into a home? Let me know, so I might try it!

sometimes I review books by well-known authors, or ones I think need to be put in front of readers. Today's review is about Nora Roberts' latest book, Shelter in Place. I've been reading Nora's books for twenty years, so I feel like I'm, while not an expert, experienced with her style. So here it goes:

This is the writing I expect from Nora Roberts. Taut, thrilling, poetic, humorous, yet dark. The story gripped me from the first page. The beginning was so amazingly frightening I couldn't put it down. I was invested in the characters and their story. They were drawn with care, quirky yet believable. And, thank goodness, no similar names! Each one had a different name (unlike Come Sundown) so that I could easily pull them up in my imagination.

I loved CiCi. I want to be her (without the weed) when I grow up. Reed and Simone were loveable characters, and I liked their journey toward each other. And Barney? Love at first read!

So, why the 4 stars, you ask, and not 5? I was disappointed in the climax. It was good, it was satisfying, but it fizzled for me. I was more excited about a certain part towards the middle involving Reed and his nemesis (no spoilers this way), than I was at the ending. The ending was anti-climactic, not her typical "I never saw that coming!" It worked, but I found myself waiting for the other shoe to drop. But there wasn't one.

I also found a lot of description that I skipped over, like shopping for towels and furniture. While I enjoyed the internal thoughts of the character involved, I found the section too drawn out. Enjoyable, but forgettable.

And lastly, when will authors realize readers don't want to spend nearly $20 on a book to be "preached" at about the author's political leanings? I read to get away from all the political rigamarole on American TV, and here, again, I'm hit with Ms. Roberts' opinions. She did it with much more subtlety than say, Susan Elizabeth Philips, but it was there, and it jarred me because it did nothing for the story, and could have easily been removed. I keep my beliefs private, and I certainly don't make people pay for them.

Author

Just starting out in this writing process. It takes over a person's life. After all, there are no set hours, no specific place to go, no definitive wardrobe. But the worlds you can visit? They make up for everything!